We're All Hurting
by Lisa Von Cooper
Summary: They both have different reasons for doing it. They both have different places where they do it. But despite the differences, the habit brings them together – and the danger threatens to tear them apart.
1. Part One: The Reasons

**We're All Hurting**

**Part One: The Reasons**

_Her_

You've been stuck in the habit for a while now. You still remember when you started, and you have a pretty good theory as to why.

For fifteen years, you were treated like dirt. They were all mean as maggots to you. They called you names. They destroyed what few possessions you owned. They pushed you into puddle after puddle after puddle. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, you can still hear their voices echoing in your memories.

"_I wish you didn't exist._"

"_You'll never be a racer._"

"_You're just a glitch – and that's all you ever be!_"

Worse than all that, though, was the casual remark that He Who Shall Not Be Named made one night. He'd caught you after a long chase and was shoving you back into your cell in the Fungeon, your home away from home. As he wrapped a glitch-proof collar around your waist, he said three words that stuck with you long after he locked the door.

"_You are nothing._"

That got to you. You remember thinking angrily that you weren't nothing. You were a person. You had hopes and fears and dreams and feelings, just like everyone else. That didn't change because you pixelated now and then.

But with so many hours alone to think, you started to wonder – was he right? Were you really a person?

So when you were released and you returned to Diet Cola Mountain, you hatched a plan.

You found a nougat stone with a jagged edge.

You pulled a sleeve up.

You drew the stone across your wrist.

And there it was: confirmation that you existed. You felt the pain and winced. You saw the thick red line ooze through the opening in your skin. You saw the thin blue line twisted around it. 01100010 01101100 01101111 01101111 01100100. Binary for "blood."

You smiled to yourself. He Who Shall Not Be Named was talking out of his butt.

But you could never be too sure.

So you did it again. And again.

Every.

Single.

Night.

Really, you should have stopped by now. He Who Shall Not Be Named is dead and gone. Your code has been fixed; you're not an outcast anymore. You're back in your position as President of _Sugar Rush_. Your bullies are now your best friends. You have a big brother (literally) who always looks out for you and would never let you down.

It all seems too good to be true.

Maybe it is. Maybe your crazy mind is creating an elaborate dream. Maybe you'll wake up at any moment and find yourself back in the doughnut bed under that crudely-built lean-to, a glitch and a nobody once more.

But wait! Here's the sting of the knife. Here's the stab of pain. Here's the trickle of interwoven blood and code. Here are the leftovers from all the other times, the ridges of skin on your arms concealed by a hoodie.

Here is the proof that you're not dreaming.

It's more than that, though. Your code is not like it was before. It's been restored to its former glory. The zeros and ones sparkle and (if you look closely) are tinged with gold. It's beautiful. So are you. You're not nothing. You deserve the good treatment that's been thrust upon you. You have worth. You matter.

You have nothing to fear.

Everything is all right.

And that, along with the endorphins released from your agony, makes you happy.

* * *

_Him_

You're a bad guy.

Okay, technically, you're not. You're supposed to be the Good Guy, the one who fixes the wreckage. And that's usually what happens. Everyone treats you like a hero. You've had so many shiny medals and tasty pies from grateful townspeople that you've lost count.

And do you deserve any of it?

No. Not one crumb.

You never won any of those medals. It was always the girl with greasy mop-like hair, or the boy who kept picking his nose, or the grown man who slowly developed a hunchback. It was always the human on the other side of the screen who saved the day. You were just the man who ran and jumped and fixed whenever they told you to. All you did, day in, day out, was follow orders – and yet everyone saw that as something to be rewarded.

Their prizes trapped you in a bubble of indulgence and make-believe. You enjoyed it at first. For thirty years you let yourself be treated like a hero. You happily blinded yourself to the truth.

And the truth was that, all that time, he was suffering.

You still remember the conversation that changed everything. It was when, for the first time in thirty years, you'd experienced heartbreak and hatred. For the first time in your life, you'd been rejected and treated like a criminal. In a moment of rage, you yelled at him, told him that he didn't understand what that was like. You did not expect his reply.

"_Yes, I do. That's every day of my life._"

You didn't realise it then, but your eyes had been opened. Oh, how could you have been so blind? How could you not have seen how much he ached for a slice of your glory? How could you not have offered to be a friend when he needed one?

Not that you'd have made much of a friend.

After all, in the Turbo/King Candy/Cy-Bug fiasco, who emerged as the real hero? He did. He stepped forward, ready to sacrifice himself to save the arcade. He was not afraid. He was willing to die and never regenerate if it meant that a little girl had a chance to live out her dream.

You will never measure up to Wreck-It Ralph. And if he's the Bad Guy, then what does that make you?

Every day, the fog of negative thoughts descends on your mind. You are ignorant. You are horrible. You are despicable. You are . . . struggling to find any adjectives that best describe you.

So you let the razor blade do the talking.

When the fluid dribbles down your legs, it's like someone pressing a RESET button in your head. The fog clears. Emotional pain has an escape route: physical pain. You feel a little better.

For now, at least.

Of course, whenever you catch a glimpse of the brick pile, or hear his little friend prattling on about how awesome he is, the fog will return. You'll have to go back into the bathroom and find a new patch of skin to cut.

But it's only fair that you take the blame for Ralph's misery. You need to punish yourself because no-one else will. They would never accept that a Good Guy could be so awful.

That's why you can't tell anyone. They would pity you – or worse still, offer to help – and you can't have that. You can't be a burden on them. You are the rescuer, they are the rescued. That's how it was programmed. Anything else would be unthinkable. As long as you hide the lines on your thighs and legs, you'll be just fine.

You could make the scars go away, if you wanted to. A few taps with your magic hammer and they'd vanish. But when you hurt yourself, you let your wounds heal the hard way. And you want to keep the scars, even though they make you wince when you sit down. They remind you that you are not above anything else. You are not the "super, super guy" they sing about in that famous song.

You are a bad guy and you must be punished.


	2. Part Two: The Revelation

**Part Two: The Revelation**

_Her_

"I'm telling you, Taffyta just came from nowhere. I was so sure I was gonna come second, but then, _whoosh_! I glitched right in front of the Pink Lightning and won the race once again!" You giggle with joy at the memory. "Boy, you should've seen her face. It was like this." You mimic the strawberry-themed racer, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

Your big brother laughs. "Oh, man, that's hilarious. You know, if the racing doesn't work out, you could always be a comedienne."

"The racing _will_ work out," you insist, more for your benefit than for Ralph's. "But I'll keep that in mind."

You and Ralph have now reached _Fix-It Felix Jr._ (you insisted on escorting him back after he visited you in _Sugar Rush_). Most of the Nicelanders are waiting at the train station, including Mary, who holds out a steaming dish. "Would you like to try some of this pie?" she asks, looking directly at Ralph.

"Would I?!" Ralph replies, clearly still not used to the Nicelanders being nice to him. "Um, yeah, sure." He picks up a small slice and bites into it. "Hey, this is good! What flavour is it?"

"Pumpkin. It's a new recipe. I wanted to get in some practice for Halloween, you see."

"Halloween's not for months," you point out.

"Oh, you can never be too prepared for Halloween," Mary warns, eyes darting as if searching for monsters. Her normal smile returns and she spins around; Felix is right behind her. "Here, you can have the bigger slice."

Most people probably wouldn't notice the small crease that appears on Felix's forehead as he chews the pastry. But you do. It's there for a second, and then it goes as soon as he swallows.

You shrug it off.

Your attention turns to the conversation Ralph is having with the Nicelanders. Most of it concerns events that you know nothing about, but it's still interesting to listen to, especially when Mary tells the long story of what she saw in _Burger Time_.

"So then – right in the middle of the diner – Peach says to Rosalina, 'If you're going to steal my boyfriend, you'd better have a getaway kart because I'm coming after you!' She was livid! Wasn't she, Felix?"

There's no affirmation. "Felix?" Mary repeats.

The handyman is nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd he go?" Gene asks. "I wanted to ask him something."

"I'll find him for you," you offer. You glitch out of the crowd of Nicelanders, feeling their hopeful eyes boring into your back, and head for the apartment block. This shouldn't be too hard. All you have to do is follow the 8-bit aroma of pie as it wafts through the building and up the stairs.

The smell fades just outside one of the bathrooms, the one next to Felix's bedroom. You sniff the air. Now you've found another stench that assaults your nostrils – the unmistakeable stink of puke.

You press your ear against the door and listen. You catch a noise which sounds like a cupboard slamming. Then the squeak of a tap. Then running water. Then nothing.

"Hello?" you call.

The sign on the door reads, "If the toilet seat I'm docking, don't come a-knocking!" You ignore the words and enter.

The vision that greets you makes you forget why you came.

He is sitting on the side of the bath holding something sharp. The same crimson liquid which coats the blade is flowing out of his leg and into the tub.

You gasp.

"What are you doing?"

* * *

_Him_

You could feel it as you tasted the pumpkin – the mist of misery clouding your brain and spreading through your whole body. You didn't want the bigger slice. You didn't deserve the bigger slice. Why did you take it in the first place? You should have given it to Ralph or Norwood or Deanna or someone who would've appreciated it.

_You are a bad guy and you must be punished. _

So you had to get out while they were distracted.

On reaching your personal bathroom, you emptied the contents of your stomach. They splashed around the toilet bowl like a whirlpool from Greek mythology. Even when you stopped retching, the mist still lingered.

You began the usual routine. You found the razor blade in its usual spot: at the back of the cupboard above the sink. You slipped off your shoes and socks. You pulled off your trousers. You ran some cold water to fill the bath, just high enough to soak your feet.

You cut.

You held your breath and grimaced when it stung. The familiar fluid surged up and leaked out. You splashed some water on your legs, thinking it would help to clean the wound. Slowly, slowly, you were beginning to wash out the heartache.

Until the raven-haired child walked in.

"What are you doing?"

"Vanellope!" You search your brain for a good excuse. "Uh, I was just, uh . . . redecorating the bathroom!" You stand up in the bath. You're so short that your legs should be hidden perfectly. "Yeah, I thought it needed brightening up, so I'm giving it a lick of paint," you babble. You smear a bit of blood onto the tiles to demonstrate. You look back.

Is Vanellope leaving yet?

Nope.

The nine-year-old approaches with soft footsteps. "Felix," she says, so quietly it's almost a whisper, "that's not paint."

You sigh and wipe off the tiles. "You're right. It's not."

She's seen everything. The razor blade, the new wound, the old scars – everything. "What have you done to your legs?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Listen, you should go. You wouldn't understand."

"No, I think I would." She pauses, then taps your shoulder twice. "Here, see this."

You open your eyes. She rolls up her sleeve and shows you what's underneath.

You blink a few times. This can't be right.

Her arm is covered in lines. They are long and short, thick and thin, straight and curved, in shades ranging from dark red to light brown.

"Jiminy jaminy."

Her greenish-hazel eyes, deadly serious, meet your sapphire orbs. "What you're doing to yourself . . . I do it too."

Her voice is calm, as if she's only discussing the weather.

"Why?" That's all you can say. "Why?"

Vanellope shrugs. "You must feel it too. Don't you ever get these nasty thoughts that only go when you give them a route to leave by? Don't you ever feel this . . . this poison bubbling up inside you, making you feel like garbage until it's released?"

And just like that, she's seen through the window to your soul. Your answer comes out so quickly that you don't realise what it means until you've said it.

"Yes."

It means that now you have a friend who truly understands you.


	3. Part Three: The Reckoning

**Part Three: The Reckoning**

_Her_

"Mr Litwak!" Thin Boy calls.

The owner of this arcade strolls towards the twin cabinets of _Sugar Rush_. "What's up?"

Fat Boy throws up a hand in despair. "Cakeway's busted."

"Busted" is putting it lightly. The multi-layered chocolate cakes can no longer be identified as such. They keep buzzing loudly and then breaking up into blocks and binary. Even when they reform into proper cake shapes, the colours are garish and blinding and just plain _wrong_.

You want to burst into tears, but while the arcade's open, you mustn't show any emotion. You simply sit in your Candy Kart and watch the spectacle with ever-fading hope.

"And look what happens when I drive," Thin Boy adds.

You're aware of him making your foot pushing the accelerator. You speed towards the cake and drive onto the curved slope. At least, you should do. Instead, you slip through the iced ground as if you're diving into a pool. The world turns black. You feel weightless. You're falling, falling, falling into oblivion –

No, you're not. You've been dropped back to where you were before by a friendly marshmallow.

"I can't get anywhere without dying!" Thin Boy moans.

"Weird." You recognise the voice as Moppet Girl, one of your game's nicer players. "I was on Gumball Gorge, Frosty Rally _and_ the Nougat Mines earlier, and everything was fine."

"I guess Cakeway's just got a couple of bugs. Like my nana," Mr Litwak adds. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a few coins. "Sorry, guys. Here, have your quarters back."

"But what about the game?" Fat Boy asks. "I mean, if Cakeway is glitching out now, how long will it be until all the other tracks do it too?"

Mr Litwak shrugs. "Dunno. I'll have the repair guy look at it tomorrow. But if he can't fix it, or it gets worse . . . well, we can't say the kids didn't have a good run."

The cakes are still broken, but that's not what's making you choke up right now. What's making you choke up is the orange glow rising from the ground and over the cakes until it touches the sky, enveloping the whole world in a cruel embrace.

"Guys?" Taffyta says, climbing out of her kart along with her fellow racers. "We're out of order."

No sooner have the words left her mouth than everyone starts screaming and running around in circles.

Except you. You're frozen in your seat in shock.

You've worked harder than anyone to be a racer. You've had to endure usurpation, homelessness, pixilation, name-calling, insults, destruction, betrayal, disappointment. But now you have a kart of your own, a place on the Random Roster board and possibly the greatest superpower a racer can possess: a Speed Boost.

To have all that taken away from you like this. . .

Your chest tightens. It feels like your heart breaking.

"Vanellope!" Rancis is calling to you from behind. He's running for the rainbow-striped road which leads to the power cable, and so are the other avatars and candy citizens. "What are you waiting for, a kiss goodbye?"

You shake your head and follow, leaving the Candy Kart behind.

You can't really think straight. You're lucky you're not a glitch anymore and can leave your game. Because the only place you want to be is with your big brother. In _Fix-It Felix Jr._

You sleepwalk through Game Central Station and onto the train, ignoring the warnings from Minty against "going Turbo." Once inside the console from the Eighties, you find a bench and sit on it. For a while you're not disturbing anyone. You wordlessly watch each game, mouthing along to every "I'M GONNA WRECK IT!" and "I CAN FIX IT!"

It's only a matter of time before the tears fall.

* * *

_Him_

A normal day brings relief and relaxation when the arcade closes.

This is not a normal day.

You are in the bathroom with Vanellope, alone together. Her big brother has stormed off somewhere else, presumably to shout at the people who are trying to help and tell them to work harder. The Nicelanders have gone to comfort the rest of the children with food.

After being given the usual all-clear from _Dance Dance Revolution X2_, Ralph found a red-eyed Vanellope at the train station. She told him that something had gone wrong with Cakeway's code, and now the game could be . . . unplugged.

Unplugged.

It's every video game character's least favourite word.

From the back of your mind, you recall a long-ago offer from a shadowy figure to take a course in video game programming. You declined, partly because it didn't seem entirely legal and partly because you couldn't imagine a time when you'd need to know how to change a zero into a one.

Now you wish you'd taken him up on his offer. So what if you got into trouble? Right now, you would be helping the Surge Protector find the problem. You would be fixing it. You would be doing something heroic!

Instead, there's nothing you can do except hold her as she weeps into your shoulder.

"This shouldn't be happening," she sobs, over and over again. "This shouldn't be happening."

"I know." You won't tell her it will be all right because you don't know that for sure. You just hear her out.

"I thought, after the reset, things would be okay. It was meant to be okay. I need okay!" She pushes away and glares at you with fire in her eyes. "Don't you think I deserve some okay after everything I've been through?"

You think you nod because it's true, not because she's scaring you.

"Then why-?" She glitches up to the cupboard and picks out something shiny before pixelating into the bathtub. "Look at this."

You come closer. She brings the blade to her arm, pauses – and slices it open.

"Vanellope!" you cry. This is like something out of a horror movie. Surely kids shouldn't have so much blood in them?

"Look at my code," she wails. "Look how pretty it is."

You peer at it. To be honest, you don't notice anything special, but you pretend. "Oh, yeah. Sure."

"There's the proof."

"Proof?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Proof that I should be happy." Her voice cracks.

"Vanellope, you're not making any sense."

"It's gonna be okay." She rocks back and forth, moaning, in pain. "It's gonna be okay."

You're panicking now. A hive of fearful thoughts buzzes in your brain. Vanellope is going mad. Vanellope is cutting too deeply. Vanellope cannot cope. Vanellope needs help.

Vanellope, Vanellope, Vanellope, Vanellope.

Maybe you should have told someone when she showed you her scars. Maybe then she really would be okay. Maybe then she wouldn't be bleeding something awful. Maybe then her eyes wouldn't be rolling back in her head.

But you'd have had to tell them why she told you about it in the first place. That means their disappointment. That means their judgement. That means their sympathy.

You don't deserve sympathy.

_You are a bad guy and you must be punished. _

You prise the razor out of the little girl's fingers and bring it to your legs.

The rest of the world disappears.

And so do you.


	4. Part Four: The Redemption

**Author's Note: The last chapter is finally here! I don't know why it took me so long to get this finished – I suppose life got in the way. But it's here now, and I hope you like it! **

**Oh, and 123 New Days, yes, that was Turbo in Part Three! **

**Have you guys heard the other news? **_**Wreck-It Ralph 2**_** has been officially announced! It'll be released in March 2018! And the plot is going to have Ralph leaving the arcade and wrecking the Internet! To quote Vanellope: "This is it! This is really happening! I almost don't believe it. I mean, I have dreamt about it for so long and now – and now I – now I think I'm gonna puke, actually, I mean, I think I might puke. You know, like a vurp! Vomit and a burp together, and you can taste it, and it's just, like, rising up – OH, THIS IS SO EXCITING!" **

**Part Four: The Redemption**

_Her _

"Kid? Can you hear me? Squeeze my finger if you can hear me."

Something thick and squidgy lands in the palm of your hand. Your fingers close around it. You try to lift your eyelids, but they feel like dead weight.

"Vanellope?"

That voice. . .

You force your eyes to open, and he's there – your big brother, sitting by your metal bed. A pristine white duvet covers your small body.

You don't remember getting into bed.

"Where am I?" You blink, and your blurry vision clears a little. Now you can make out the sky-blue tiles covering the walls. Pink flowers have been arranged in a yellow vase by a tiny window.

"This is Game Central Hospital, kid."

"Hospital?" You lift the duvet. Sure enough, you're wearing the typical blue hospital gown.

Ralph strokes your other arm, which, as you can now see, is heavily bandaged. "Geez, you really scared everyone."

"Did I do something stupid?"

"'Stupid' is probably the wrong word. But it _was_ pretty dangerous." He sniffs. "I could've lost you."

That's when you see it: the moisture coating his cheeks.

"Are you crying?"

"What? No!" he snaps. "It's hay fever from the flowers over there."

You give him a scathing look. "Admit it, you're crying."

But as the last word leaves your mouth, it hits you. Ralph is crying because of _you_.

You place your tiny hand on top of his colossal one. "That was mean. I owe you a bigger apology."

"What for?"

"For making you so scared. I wasn't trying to hurt myself. Well, maybe I was, a little. But I just. . ."

You sigh. You have no idea how to explain this. It was fine talking to Felix about it because he understood. He did it himself. But talking to Ralph? It's a lot harder.

"Tell me." The words are a whisper.

"I just . . . I just thought . . . listen, I'd spent fifteen years being treated like garbage. And then all this wonderful stuff came along at once and I didn't know what to do. I kept thinking that it was all a dream, that none of it was real." You bow your head. "I guess I needed the pain to convince myself that it _was_ real. And yet there's always this feeling that maybe . . . maybe I don't deserve it."

Without hesitation, Ralph grabs you and pulls you into a big hug. "That's ridiculous. Of course you deserve it. You deserve every nice thing in the world. You're sweet and adorable and definitely the best racer in _Sugar Rush_. If I haven't said that enough, then _I'm_ the one who should be apologising."

Tears threaten your own eyes now. "Then why is my game broken?"

"It's not."

"Huh?" You wiggle out of the hug. "Says who?"

"Says the Surge Protector. They found a spare tyre lodged in Cakeway's code."

Despite your current location, you snigger. "How'd that get there?"

"No-one has a clue, but they've taken it out and everything's back to normal. The game's fine."

"Really?"

"Really."

You beam. Something warm and comforting swells in your chest – something you didn't know had a word until recently.

Hope.

Hope for your game. Hope for your friendships. Hope for an end to the dangerous habit.

It looks like things might just be fine after all.

Well, nearly everything.

"Where's Felix?" you ask suddenly, smile fading.

Ralph glances down. "He's in another ward. I don't think you should visit him right now."

"Hey, I may have busted my arm, but I can still walk, can't I?"

"That's not what I meant. The doctors say you should be . . . kept away from each other for a while."

The news hurts more than a knife to your throat. "Why?"

"It's complicated."

"Then I'll go and visit and he can explain."

"No."

"Please!" You grab his shirt. "Let me see him. He needs me."

Your brother listens. He closes his eyes in thought.

Then he helps you out of bed.

_Him_

As soon as the doctor closes the door behind him –

"WHAT IN CODE'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?!"

The black-clad soldier paces the room. "How could you do that to yourself – to all of us? Do you have any idea what you've caused?"

You briefly clock the handgun strapped to her belt and opt for the truth. "No."

The sergeant stops at the head of the bed, grips the metal rail and leans forward, eyes narrowed into slits. "Well, shall I tell you, short stack? You've made Ralph cry like a little girl, you've given every Nicelander a panic attack, and you've nearly killed yourself."

Through your gown, your fingers stroke the bandage around your thigh. The doctor's already warned you that you narrowly avoided a major artery. You don't need a telling-off from your wife as well.

"Tammy-" you start.

"Don't 'Tammy' me!" she cries. "You can't expect us to be on nickname terms after something like this!"

"I'm-I'm sorry," you stammer.

"How about apologising to Ralph?"

That takes you by surprise. "What did I do to Ralph?" Haven't you been punished enough for those thirty years?

Wait, no. Of course you haven't. It will never end.

"You didn't do anything," Tamora replies. Now she's moving to the side of the bed. "You were there watching his best friend die and you didn't _do_ anything." Globs of spit fly out on the penultimate word.

It takes a second for the sentence to bring about a response.

"Oh my land!" you gasp. "Vanellope's not dead, is she?"

"I don't know," Tamora admits. "I haven't seen her."

"Well, she can't be dead!" you tell yourself. "She's too young."

"Youth is no protection. You die outside your game, you don't regenerate. Game Over."

_Game Over. _

It's an impulse decision to yank her gun from its holster and point it towards yourself.

"Give that back!" She reaches out for it.

"No!" you yell.

"Felix, you're being ridiculous."

"No, I'm not!" You push her onto the floor. You're stronger than you've ever been before. "I can't keep hurting everyone. This is the right thing to do."

Looking down the barrel into pure darkness, you say it out loud.

"I'm a bad guy and I must be punished."

You close your eyes. The gun moves to the side of your head.

"NO!" a woman screams.

You pull the trigger.

_BANG! _

Your face explodes in pain. You're thrown against the pillow. All you can see is black.

Someone unfamiliar rushes in. "What just happened?"

"Nothing, doc. It was an accident. Everything's fine."

The stranger leaves.

When your body doesn't feel stiff with shock anymore, you sit up. You blink. The bullet has lodged itself in the ceiling, cracks spreading like tree roots. Tamora holds the gun; she must have snatched it from you while she punched you in the eye.

"For Code's sake, you're unbelievable!" she hisses, returning the gun to its holster. "You're not going to make things better by giving up on life. That's the last thing we want. We're trying to help."

"I know, and I appreciate it." You rub your bad eye and groan. "I just can't do anything right. Ralph, Vanellope, you . . . it's all messed up. Because of me." Your gaze falls to the duvet. There's something lodged in your throat. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is, "I-I-I-" before you burst into tears.

You're making a lot of weird gasping noises and your face probably looks hideous, but right now none of that matters. The weight of your sadness is too much to bear. Reality fades away until you're aware of only two things: your existence, and the fact that you are truly, truly miserable.

There must be a way out.

But right now you can't see it.

"Hey."

Who's that?

"It's okay, Felix."

A gentle touch rests on your arm. You lift your head from your wet hands.

She's here. One arm is wrapped up in bandages, but at least she's not dead. She's here, and she's telling you it will all be okay.

And for the first time since everything changed, you're starting to believe it.

You embrace her. You thought you were going to cry again, but you're not – you're too relieved to see her. Her presence has stemmed the flow of your tears.

For now.

"What happened to us?" you ask.

"I don't know," she replies. "But we can find out, and we can fix it."

"Together?"

"Together, sure. But not just us. We'll have our friends, too, like Ralph and Calhoun. They'll be there for us. That's what he told me." She turns back to Ralph, as if to confirm his presence, and smiles back at you. "No more hiding away. We're gonna face it. We're gonna be strong."

You can't do much more except grin in admiration of her bravery. Maybe it'll rub off on you, and then you'll never be too afraid to ask for help again.

After all, perhaps there are no such things as heroes and villains. There is no separate class of people who are destined to save the day but never allowed to save themselves. Instead, we save each other. We have people by our side who will never abandon us, and in turn we promise not to abandon them. That's how we get through the tough times.

And as long as you hold on to that, anything is possible.

**THE END? **


End file.
